Someone asked me ‘What is your muse?’.

Well, most of you would expect something like this:


Unfortunately, my muse doesn’t come even close.

My muse you see, is thoroughly tanned, extremely hairy man, around fifty. He strolls around, wearing nothing more than long shorts and suspenders over his well-rounded belly, glistening in sweat. He’s limping slightly when he walks on his stubby feet, as it seems that one of them is even shorter than the other. Which, I dare say, in no way impede his ability to balance the considerable weight of his broad shoulders and enormous hands with the grace of a skillful acrobat.

A thick cigar is permanently clenched between his big, white teeth. A cigar he never lights up, and that never leaves his mouth, even as he talks or smiles. And he smiles a lot.

Actually, I’ve never seen him without a grin on his face.

Now, one would expect, that a muse is there to help him. To help him write better, to inspire him, to give him strength is moments of hardship. Well not my guy. He is here for his own amusement. He likes my struggles. He loves to see me suffer in front of the empty page unable to produce a single word. I dare say he enjoys it. Why would he laugh all the time otherwise?

Now, I would like a muse, that will support my efforts, but I have him.

The moment I sit down to write, he begins fooling around, slapping the suspenders on his fat belly and laughing telling me dirty jokes. And I don’t even like dirty jokes. They piss me off. But, my muse, doesn’t care. He finds them hilarious. That’s what’s important to him. He laughs, and laughs, springing around, guffawing under his thick, copper mustache, and I become pretty sure, his father, the mighty Zeus, made a mistake with this one.

I would accept if he tried to help me at least to keep my schedule, but he doesn’t do that. He’s busy. He throws ideas at me, slapping me right in the face. And one would think, ‘Oh, now that’s better. That is a good, positive thing, right?’.

Well, fuck no. It’s not. Too many ideas, make you lose your focus, deviate from the chosen path and miss the target. So even that is of no help.

People say ‘You have to find your Muse.’ Well, in my case, my muse, found me, so there is no return address. I would like to swap it for something more inspiring… or at least not so annoying, but you know, who would take that guy?

Anyways, if you know a way to get rid of an annoying muse, feel free to drop me a note, I’ll be very much obliged.

If you want to support me, you can buy my story “Without Notice”  on Amazon, and leave a nice review 🙂 

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